


Welcome to London

by orphan_account



Series: unrelated tumblr shorts [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, i dont write mycroft-courting-jim nearly often enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-25 00:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14965376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: prompt: "Oh god, I need a drink"





	1. Chapter 1

Jim learns immediately that Mycroft Holmes doesn’t mess around.

Jim’s first big gig in England takes place dead center of London where a foreign dignitary’s mistress has the egg-sized emeralds stolen right off her neck. It causes a huge scandal. It’s wholly hilarious. His wife leaves him.

That’s not the point, the point is that someone who Jim will not name because  _client-consultant privileges, thanks_  wants to build a giant shopping center and this particular politician and stymied their development. Their first thought was to take him out (of the killing sort, not the dating sort), and Jim got wind of  _this_ development because the hitman they were trying to contract was a good ol’ pal of Jim’s.

Enter: the criminal consultant. Why kill them with bullets, when you could kill them with style? Think of all the added misery.

Anyway, Jim is gleefully rubbing his hands together like a cartoon supervillain as he watches the foreign dignitary’s reputation get smashed to pieces and he starts planning his speech to step down, when he gets a call from an unlisted number.

On the one hand, it’s good manners to answer, and Jim is very curious as to who managed to get this number. On the other hand, pass.

Turns out that was a mistake, because the second Jim leaves the modest motel he’d booked a room at en route to leaving the country, he’s pushed into a black car with tinted windows by some giant, gloved man.

The shot his sniper fires from across the street (Jim isn’t  _unprepared_ , he’s not some kind of heathen) misses, hitting the bulletproof car, and off they speed.

Shit.

He’s dressed like a tourist and for all intents and purposes can play it off. Jim is very good at staying in character, even through particularly vicious interrogations.

So he pulls on his appropriately terrified expression and cowers in the corner of the seat. Jim looks up to see man maybe a few years older than him, in a very old fashion three-piece suit.

The man offers one gloved hand to shake, and Jim just stares at it like it’s a cobra.

“Mycroft Holmes,” he practically purrs. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“I don’t want to make your acquaintance!” Jim sputters. “Is this some kind of joke?”

He tuts at Jim and retracts his hand. Then, expression still annoyed, gives him a small smile.

“You may drop the act, Mr. Moriarty, I know who you are and I know the little jewel heist had more to do with politics than shiny trinkets,” he says in that froufy posh accent of his.

Jim weighs his odds while keeping his expression of incredulous terror on his face.

“Are you a crazy person?” he asks, half hysterical. He looks around the car, dramatic and resigned. “Are you  _kidnapping_  me?”

Mycroft Holmes sighs.

“You can drop the accent too, Mr. Moriarty. I would so love to hear your voice,” he says. Jim just stares.

“Ah,” Mycroft Holmes says, as if he’d just had an epiphany. “This isn’t an arrest, I should have said.”

He smiles like he knew exactly what he was doing, then reaches for the bar. Jim gives him points for style.

He pours them each a finger of scotch and Jim grips the tumbler but doesn’t drink.

“It was just, I’d noticed a new player in town, and wanted to send my regards,” Mycroft Holmes says slowly, dragging his finger across the rim of his glass. “Your little act was, how should I put this. Inspiring, in its dramatics. I so enjoyed the show, and wished to extend my greeting in person.”

A quirk of the lips. Holmes gives him a very fond sort of look.

“You see, England is my stage, and I feel it my responsibility to extend oversight on all the actors and plays that rotate through our little corner of the world,” he says.

The car stops.

“It was so very lovely to meet you, Mr. Moriarty,” Holmes says, sounding a bit regretful the drive had come to an end. The door pops open, and Jim is nearly startled to realize that they’ve come to the airport, where he was headed anyway. Holmes has been surprisingly distracting.

Jim shoots him a look, then grabs his bag and tries to exit—and Holmes takes Jim’s hand in his before he manages.

“Let’s meet again, soon,” he says. “Business, or pleasure, I’m not picky at this point, because I would very much like to get to know you.”

Jim studies the man’s face before dropping his hand.

He heads into the airport without another word, aware he’s being watched now, and baffled by the nature of it.

On the plane, Jim sits back and pulls his headphones on, glad to have been made because dropping his tourist persona means he doesn’t have to fly economy class anymore. He has a meeting in Prague tomorrow morning, so he pulls out his phone to check his itinerary, only to find card that’s been dropped right into his pocket.

_I know a lovely bistro by the river. Shall we have brunch? x_

Jim stares at the thin, perfect script for a long beat, then drops the card and phone both into his lap, dragging his hands down his face.

“Oh god.”

He waves a stewardess over.

“I need a drink.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> idk how much this'll be continued or where it's going

On Sunday Jim wakes up inordinately early in London, loath to do so after an all nighter and a week on Hong Kong time, and looks out the window to locate the knocking disturbance.

 

There is a pigeon.

 

“I think,” Jim says slowly, projecting so Sebastian Moran, who is reading the paper by the gas stove in the kitchen, knows he’s talking to him. “That the British Government is trying to court me.”

 

The pigeon is wearing a hat.

 

And there is a rolled up piece of paper tied to its neck.

 

Jim stares at it. It stares back. It trills, and then knocks on the window glass, twice, with its beak.

 

“What, like, he’s trying to recruit you?” Sebastian calls back.

 

“Like. Dating-wise,” Jim says, carefully unlatching the window and pulling it open. “Or recruiting-wise. I’m not sure.”

 

He tugs the rolled up piece of paper free from the looped twine, unscrolls the scroll, and shoos the pigeon out.

 

Sebastian, with great reluctance, pulls himself away from his paper (there is a feature on big game hunting in Africa) and sticks his head around the doorway.

 

“Am I supposed to shoot him or something?”

 

“Nooo,” Jim says, like he’s talking to a toddler who he’s had to repeat this to many times. “You don’t shoot the ref at the start of the game, it makes for a very short game.”

 

Sebastian shrugs, relieved, and goes back to his story.

 

The letter reads:

 _Dear Jim,_ _  
_ _I had the opportunity to preview a gallery exhibition the other day, and I must admit, it stole my breath away. Such lovely work, and such talent you’ve allowed to be showcased to the world. And, I must say, the stars you’ve chosen are just inspired. A lovely meteor shower, particularly bright this spring, occurs just three days from now and I happen to know of a secluded perch perfect for a midnight picnic and drinks. Would you allow me the honor of sitting under the stars with you?_

 

“He sounds very gay,” Sebastian says.

 

“Sebastian,” Jim says with a sigh, dragging his hand down his face, “as a straight man you have the literal worst gaydar I have ever had the honor to witness.”

 

Sebastian squints.

 

“But yes, yes he is.”

 

Jim ignores the letter and side-eyes every pigeon on the street with added wariness for the next three days, but Mycroft Holmes makes no further attempts to contact him. He even starts to wonder whether it was all just an intimidation technique, or something meant to provoke paranoia.

 

He is wondering this as he briefly steps out to do a rare bit or reconnaissance on his own, spying on a newly engaged power couple from across the wedding china floor, hiding his features from any cameras or eyes as he pretends to look at some expensive charger plates.

 

“You haven’t replied.”

 

An upper-crust British accent, punctuated with a near-petulant sigh, causes Jim to nearly drop the plate. He whips his head around in time to see Mycroft step up behind him, taking the plate out of his hands.

 

“Pattern’s a bit, hm, contemporary,” Mycroft comments with slight disdain. “I suppose as an accent piece to serve beneath more traditional china, perhaps for, oh say, garden parties, I could be amenable.”

 

Jim goes from startled to offended, and grabs the plate out of his hands.

 

“We are not _shopping for plates_ ,” he hisses.

 

“Aren’t we?” Mycroft looks surprised. Jim’s eyes go wide at the audacity and he slams the plate back down on the display, attracting the horrified attention of the shop assistant. He stalks out of the store and hopes, vindictively, that Mycroft might instead get the verbal lashing from the retail worker.

 

He’s disappointed when a moment later Mycroft meets him on the sidewalk, expression patient and open, like they had both agreed to exit the store and were, oh, _walking together._ Or something.

 

He sees Jim staring and smiles.

 

“Have you had lunch yet? My driver should be just coming around the block,” Mycroft says.

 

“No!”

 

“Good, I have standing reservations at a lovely French place, though I seldom have a reason to go,” Mycroft says, and now Jim thinks he is deliberately misinterpreting.

 

Jim stares some more. He does not give into the temptation to start tugging at his hair. Mycroft just smiles, and waits.

 

“Ah, there he is.” Mycroft nods toward an approaching car, as Jim struggles with his words.

 

“Don’t you…”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Don’t you have a _job_ or something?” Jim spits out, taking a step back. “What kind of _minor government official_ has time to traipse around the city setting up frivolous dates?”

 

The car stops, and the driver steps out to come around the other side.

 

“Oh on the contrary, Mr. Moriarty,” Mycroft says. “I take my job very seriously.”

 

The driver opens the door, standing back for the two of them to get in.

 

“It’s just that, well, my _job_ includes keeping and eye on valuable assets,” Mycroft says, looking Jim up and down, voice softening to a purr. “Such as yourself.”

 

Jim stares at Mycroft. Then into the car. Then back at Mycroft.

 

He has a decision to make here, and steels himself for it. He looks Mycroft right in the eye,

 

then turns right on his heel and sprints for it.


End file.
